


Being Neighborly

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Category: BioShock, BioShock 2
Genre: Gen, Johnny Acevedo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:12:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3391328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody needs a little help navigating a new city, even when that city is located at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At a Party at the Bottom of the Rabbit-Hole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on some personally-devised headcanon [in which Johnny Topside is Puerto Rican](http://crisontumblr.tumblr.com/post/111209656238/just-when-i-thought-boosturdgold-and-i-couldnt), because I need more Puerto Rican characters in my life. There's Spanish scattered throughout; translations are provided in the end notes.

It only takes maybe half an hour for Rapture’s newest arrival to realize that perhaps he should have reconsidered attending this party masquerading as an art show. Never mind how exclusive the guest list is, or how many of the city’s elite are also here, or just how many of _them_ want to meet _him_ \--

“Oh-oh-oh! There he is! Martha, look--”

“Are you sure it’s him? I thought he was shorter.”

“Oh, Martha, please; of course, it’s him!” Two young women approach, a blonde and a brunette in evening dresses that hug their forms. The blonde woman waves for his attention. “You, sir--you’re the one they’re calling Johnny Topside, right?”

And Rapture’s newest arrival grips his wine glass a little tighter. He tries to push his lips into an easy smile and he offers his hand to shake. Yes, that’s correct. He is Johnny Topside. What a pleasure it is to make their acquaintances! The blonde woman giggles. Her fair cheeks turn a gentle shade of pink. And then the questions start. They ask him how he is adjusting to life in Rapture. (Fine enough, though the lack of sunlight has been strange.) They ask if it is true, if he really did find the place by accident. (Yes, of course. Who would ever dream that such a place exists?) The brunette, Martha, asks if there is anything he misses about the surface.

Right now? Anonymity is at the top of the list.

“My mother’s cooking.”

It isn’t entirely a lie. Three weeks of being down here has left him wondering about her welfare. With no way to contact her, to tell her that he is not only alive but safe, it would not surprise him that she has already booked a flight to Iceland just to search for him. Maybe there is somebody who can help him with that…

“So, uh, Mr. Topside--” The blonde gives him a winsome smile. “--did you leave any sweetheart behind up there?”

Martha makes a warning sound. “Alice!”

“What?” Alice shrugs. “It’s just a question--”

“Please excuse her--”

“Don’t try to speak for me--!”

“Excuse me, ladies. I have to, um--” And here he pauses to down the remaining half of his wine. “I need to refill my glass.”

He walks away before hearing their responses, making a direct line for the designated bar. The bartender is a man in a white rabbit mask and says nothing as he refills Johnny’s wine glass. It makes him uncomfortable, but in a way that feels more acceptable than the discomfort of having to answer those harmless questions. And, oh, how he has had to answer so many of those questions in the last three weeks--along with even some not-so-harmless ones.

_¿Y de quien es la culpa?_

His. All his. All because he let his curiosity get the better of him--although, in his defense, he never did quite expect it to lead to all of… _this_. Rapture. A hidden underwater city. The closest thing to Atlantis as can be realized. A full report on this place could actually put his name on the map back home. It might also just get him committed.

Of course, both assume he can actually go home again, and unless the city’s council changes its mind--

“Hey! Topside! Funny seeing you here, buddy!”

Johnny looks at the man calling his new name, temporarily drawing a blank until his eyes settle on the press badge hanging from the lapel of the man’s suit jacket.

“Mr. Poole, right?”

The reporter’s expression brightens. “Yeah, yeah! Stanley! You remembered.”

He also remembers the four audio messages and three handwritten notes requesting to do an “in-depth interview to sate the people’s curiosity.” This, Johnny decides, would be rude to bring up…until the fidgeting man does it himself.

“I mean, I ain’t gonna rush ya on an answer or nothin’--I mean, I still got quite a few assignments on my plate, like this--but ya read one review on a Cohen show, ya basically read ‘em all, get me?”

“I will have to take your word for it.”

Although, judging from the horror show of so-called “art” on the walls and podiums scattered about the venue, the diver cannot resist wondering about the size of Rapture’s artistic community. Decidedly small, if someone like this Sander Cohen fellow can get the backing to stage something like this. This, he decides, is also too rude to bring up, especially with someone who could reshape his image as easily as the local paper already has.

“Huh. Gold.”

Johnny blinks. “¿Perdón?”

“What?”

He clears his throat. “What is gold?”

Stanley points to the pin on Johnny’s suit jacket, similar in shape to the red one above the reporter’s press badge. “Your rabbit. It’s gold. I’ve seen a lot of blue ones and red ones and even a few purple ones, but I  think you might be the only one here that’s got a gold rabbit pin.”

“Oh.” To be honest, he almost forgot about it. The pin came with the invitation. “Is that a good thing?”

The reporter merely shrugs. “Anyway, I gotta get back to lookin’ like I haven’t already written this piece. It’s good seen’ ya, though! And hey, keep a thought to what I said, huh? You’n’ me; we’re gonna make ‘Topside’ a household name!”

If only it were actually his name… But it’s a futile thing, isn’t it? Why bother even getting annoyed?

_Olvídalo. Decidieron que eres Johnny Topside, y Johnny Topside serás._

But it’s the principle of the thing, isn’t it? There is a palpable discomfort that comes with being handed an identity that fits like a clingy wool sweater in the peak of summer. It’s just like when the resort managers used to give him name tags that read _Jose_ or _Pablo_ or _Pedro_ instead of _Johnathan_ like it was supposed to. It’s the eternally-stifled cringe of hearing butchered Spanish commands from people just like the ones at this party (spoken at twice the necessary volume because, somehow, “doesn’t speak English” equated with “partially deaf”) and the hidden distaste for every instance his mastery of English has been “impressive” or even “a relief.” It’s the confusion that rises every time someone is surprised that he isn’t Italian or Spanish, that his green eyes and fine features disrupt expectations of what an “islander” looks like, as if it’s some kind of blessing that some conquistador’s genes survived enough generations to get to him.

Strange, how some attitudes just remain the same, even at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.

At least they let him keep his first name.

Sort of.

Johnny checks his watch, itself a gift of some anonymous admirer. Another hour of this, maybe two; that might just be enough to give him a headache he needs to make his leave. Trouble is, he would really rather _not_ linger here that long if he can help it. He would rather be at the apartment given to him, the apartment that does not yet feel like home, reading or cooking something better than the questionable-looking hors d’oeuvres.

He wonders if he can leave now without causing some kind of scandal for himself. No one is paying attention to him. Maybe, if he’s lucky--

“Well, don’t you look like you’d rather be somewhere else?”

_¡Carajo!_

Johnny turns, trying to keep his face from showing annoyance. The speaker is an older gentleman dressed as fancily as all the rest, a red tie and the stylized rabbit head pin on his lapel the only splashes of color against his black tuxedo. He smiles, the expression lighting up his hazel eyes, and Johnny thinks it might just be the first time someone has smiled down here without looking like they want to sink their teeth into him.

“Is it that obvious?”

The man shrugs. “Maybe not to the others. Then again, the others are busy drinking in all the sights.”

“Or maybe just all the booze,” Johnny answers.

The older man laughs before taking a sip of what looks to be rum or whiskey. “Well, now, _that_ is a certainty. Folks around here love a good glass of Arcadia’s finest more than they do a night of stimulating art. They love it even more if it’s free.”

“Stimulating.” The diver scoffs, eyeing a canvas covered in streaks and splotches in varying shades of purple and red. “That’s…putting it politely.”

“No exactly a fan of Mr. Cohen’s work, are we?”

Johnny doesn’t even hide his distaste for the paintings. “It’s like he got drunk, ate the entire paint aisle of an art store, and threw it up all over the canvas. I’ve seen epileptics with better self-control.”

The older man laughs again. “Now if that ain’t just the most accurate description I’ve heard all night! I should’ve come by and talked with you sooner.”

The declaration makes Johnny shift uncomfortably and glance towards the exit. Maybe engaging this man with the Southern accent was a bad idea, especially after an otherwise successful night of avoiding most of the people who seemed to want something from him. Still, something about his presence… He hasn’t tried to lay a hand on him in familiarity and has, in fact, kept a measure of distance between them. He doesn’t talk like they already know each other. Come to think of it--

“So, Mr. Art Critic, you got a name that I can pair with the pleasure of your acquaintance?”

Johnny blinks, the question genuinely surprising him. Doesn’t he know? Seems like all of Rapture does.

“If you’ve read the paper, sure.”

“Oh, I have,” answers the gentleman, taking a sip of his drink, “but if there’s one thing I’ve been quick to learn, it’s that you can’t always trust what you read. People here enjoy being inventive and the like. I prefer going directly to the source.”

“Do you?”

“Uh-huh.” He flashes another of those genuine smiles and offers his free hand. “So, how ‘bout it? You got a name, or will ‘Art Critic’ have to do?”

The diver hesitates momentarily. Why is this man so cordial? What does he want?

_¿Por qué eres tan sospechoso? Calmarte._

The gentleman’s hand is warm, slightly on the rough side. They share a firm handshake.

“Johnathan.” And it bothers him when he has to remember to add, “Acevedo. Johnathan Acevedo.”

“Acevedo.” The surname rolls off the gentleman’s tongue with surprising flawlessness. “Augustus Sinclair, local entrepreneur, pleased to make your acquaintance, and newly impressed by the inventiveness of _Tribune_.”

“If that’s what you want to call it,” Johnny answers. “Kind of surprised I’ve gotten used to it so quickly--the name at least. The attention--”

As if on cue, a blur of color fades in next to him, solidifying into the host of this little soiree. Sander Cohen claps a hand to Johnny’s shoulder and it takes everything in him not to jump or pull away. This party is only their second meeting, but it only took five minutes of their first exchange to realize that the man was more than likely insane _and_ strongly attracted to him.

(It took two more minutes to realize that Sander Cohen likely did not understand the concept of rejection.)

“ _There_ you are, my little diver! I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Tell me, tell me--” Cohen leans in and the smell of his cologne is an affront to the senses. “What does Rapture’s newest sensation think of my humble display, hmm?”

“It’s been…stimulating,” Johnny answers. “In fact, we were just discussing it.”

The party host blinks in confusion. “We?”

Augustus Sinclair clears his throat as he raises his glass. The supposed “artist” reveals a knack for overacting as well, his face becoming a mimic of surprise.

“Ahh! _Mis-ter_ Sinclair! How good to see you again. And I see you have acquainted yourself with the honored guest of the evening!” Cohen chuckles, squeezing Johnny’s shoulder. “How very… _forward_ of you.”

Sinclair merely offers a good-natured expression in return. “Now, Mr. Cohen, I might have to take some offense if you’re insinuatin’ that I mean anything inappropriate in front of Rapture’s newest resident. I’m just bein’ neighborly. There ain’t much shameful about being neighborly, is there?”

“Oh no, _no_! Perish that thought! I meant no such _thing_!” But the hand on Johnny’s shoulder grips ever tighter, and he is certain that the man is wishing he could shoot daggers from his eyes.

“Then I’ll keep from being offended and save us both a few unwanted headlines. Last thing we both need to do is steal attention from all your hard work.”

“Ahahaha--please, please; you’re much too kind, Sinclair. Perhaps I might finally be able to interest you in purchasing a piece, perhaps for your office or your apartment?”

“And deprive your admirers the opportunity? I can’t possibly do that.” A passing server with an empty tray give Sinclair the opportunity to do away with his empty glass. “But say--whatever happened to that polar bear you had in here a few months ago? I thought it was gonna be the centerpiece.”

Cohen stiffens. A disgusted frown pulls at his red lips. “Nonsense! I sold the horrid thing to Frank Fontaine--practically paid him to have it taken away, honestly. It was scaring my newest muses.”

“Was it, now?”

“Poor little dears. I suppose they worried it would devour them. But I would never let that happen, of course.”

“I-I’m sorry, but--a _polar bear_?” The two men look at Johnny as if just now recalling his presence. “It wasn’t an…an actual bear, was it?”

“Oh, no, no, my young friend! Ryan wouldn’t allow for such a thing!” Cohen laughs a little, pats him on the shoulder. “No. It was a sculpture, but what imagination you have, my boy. You’ll do fine here!”

He bites back the urge to comment that hopefully it will be without whatever “help” the artist might want to offer. He turns his gaze towards Sinclair, who catches it and clears his throat again. The Southern gentleman steps forward, slips a hand around the crook of Johnny’s left elbow.

“Now, look here, Cohen; if you’re not the sort to mind, I’ve actually got a proposition for our new friend here, but I’d much prefer to make it in private. Too many keen ears and loose lips, y’see--”

“Oh, of course. Of course.”

“--but it has been quite the evening. Do be sure to let me know about the next one.”

“Of course,” Cohen repeats. “How could I even begin to _think_ of leaving you off the guest list? And you, Monsieur Topside--”

“Huh?”

“Don’t be a stranger, hmm? At the very least, consider my offer.” He draws a card from the inner pocket of his suit jacket and presses it into Johnny’s hand. “The stage could be such a grand second home for someone with such an _alluring_ presence as yours!”

Johnny stares at the outline of the rabbit’s head on the card. “Um, thanks, I guess--”

“I’ll make sure he calls you.” Sinclair gently pulls on the young man’s arm. “Again, great work here, Cohen! Truly your best so far, old boy.”

Johnny lets himself be led away by the Southerner because, for now, it means being away from that weirdo. It’s the lesser of the two undesirables. The notion that Sinclair might have a “proposition” for him, however, has not escaped his notice. Neither do the stares from other guests as they head closer to the exit. At least two women appear to be whispering to each other as they pass. Great. Will there be rumors about them tomorrow? Because that’s just _exactly_ what Johnny needs to go with this brand new name of his--a brand new reputation!

“Don’t pay them much mind, son. Soon as you leave, they’ll be distracted by something else--Cohen himself, likely, since he can’t survive long without being the center of attention.” Sinclair grins at him.

“That much I figured,” Johnny answers. “But, uh, about that…proposition--?”

“A bit of exaggeration, although I don’t doubt his interest in you being more than theatrical.”

“I don’t suppose you know how to let him know I’m not interested in either case.”

Sinclair shakes his head. As soon as they exit into High Street, he lets go of the young man. They stand there for a little while, watching Rapture’s other citizens go about their business. Already, Johnny has to admit, he feels much more at ease than he did a few minutes ago--and all thanks to this rather curious stranger with the Southern accent.

__Debes darle la gracias, quizás ofrecerle algo para la ayuda que te dio._ _

But what? Sinclair doesn’t exactly look like he’s hurting for money. They barely know each other, so it’s not like he could offer… Besides, it’s not even like Johnny’s that kind of man--that is to say, not the type to just throw himself at random strangers who show him a bit of kindness. But he is grateful for the help, and maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to actually try and make a friend or two in this town.

“Hey.” Johnny turns to him. “Mr. Sinclair--”

“Just ‘Sinclair’ will do,” answers the gentleman. “Only investors and my secretary ever use the ‘Mister’ nowadays.”

“Sinclair.” He nods. “Well, how do you feel about coffee?”

And Augustus Sinclair, this strange Southern gentleman; he just offers one of those genuine smiles. “Matter of fact, I happen to know just the perfect coffee spot in this town. Shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations for all the Spanish:**  
>  1\. ¿Y de quien es la culpa? = And who’s fault is that?  
> 2\. Olvídalo. Decidieron que eres Johnny Topside, y Johnny Topside serás. = Forget it. They decided that you’re Johnny Topside, and Johnny Topside you’ll be.  
> 3\. ¿Perdón? = Pardon?  
> 4\. ¡Carajo! = Dammit! (Or, in more extreme cases, Fuck! It’s a very versatile swear word that depends on tone.)  
> 5\. ¿Por qué eres tan sospechoso? Calmarte. = Why are you so suspicious? Calm down.  
> 6\. Debes darle la gracias, quizás ofrecerle algo para la ayuda que te dio. = It’d be a good idea to say thanks, maybe offer him something for the help he gave you.


	2. Quizás

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take a drink every time you see the word "quizás" (which is Spanish for "maybe" or "perhaps")--except don't, unless you're drinking water. Translations for the rest of the Spanish are once again at the end of the chapter, but try not to peek!

There is some measure of relief when the perfect coffee spot turns out to be exactly what it is, instead of some euphemism for just about anything else. He isn’t entirely sure why, but Johnny expresses as much to Sinclair while they stand in line. Someone else might have considered it rude. All it seems to do is amuse the businessman.

“I’ll assume that to mean you’ve gotten plenty of invites, then.”

“Too many.”

“Well, that is the drawback of being the biggest thing to hit Rapture since Sander Cohen’s last play.”

“I wasn’t aware people here were that starved for entertainment.”

Sinclair chuckles. “Most people haven’t encountered anything or anyone from the surface in years. The trip’s usually just one way. You finding this place by complete accident just adds to the mystique of it all.”

To this, Johnny doesn’t respond. He lets Sinclair pay for their coffees and quietly collects more than enough sugar packets and a small carton of whole milk. They find a booth near a back corner away from the other few patrons in the cafe. As soon as they sit down, Johnny’s hands are already busy. He pours milk until it turns from black to tan; tears packets two at a time over the cup to avoid a mess, ending up with six in total. Sinclair offers a stirring stick before he even realizes that he forgot to grab a spoon. The thanks he gives back is quick, quiet.

“I wouldn’t be wrong assuming you don’t mind if I ask questions, would I? So long as it’s in the interest of making further acquaintances?” asks Sinclair.

“I suppose not,” Johnny answers. “You’ve been considerably much nicer about it, at least.”

“A byproduct of my upbringing, perhaps. Now, I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve got just a touch of an accent in your speech, and pairing that with your last name, I couldn’t help but get to wondering--”

Oh, here it comes.

“--whereabouts are you actually from?”

He takes a sip of his coffee before answering, not even bothering to Anglicize the way he says, “San Juan.”

“San Juan,” echoes Sinclair, and the diver is willing to give the man a small pass because of the Southern accent.

“Puerto Rico,” Johnny clarifies. “Born and raised, although apparently, you can’t tell.”

“Perhaps if you’re not paying attention, which is, regrettably, the fault of a lot of people.” Sinclair shakes a packet of sugar before tearing it open and emptying its contents into his own cup. “So I take that to mean Spanish is your first language.”

“Would you like me to translate something for you?”

“Aha. I take you’ve been getting a lot of that, as well.”

“Much too often, but I suppose that’s also part of being Rapture’s newest sensation.”

“Unfortunately.”

They fall into silence for a little bit. Johnny watches Sinclair return to preparing his coffee. He adds two more packets of sugar and only the smallest touch of milk. (The coffee barely even changes color.) He stirs slowly, does a taste test with the stirrer. It takes another three packets before he appears satisfied enough to take a full sip.

“What about you?” Johnny asks. “Where are you from?”

“Georgia, but my roots are in Panama.”

“Panama?”

Sinclair nods, explaining his family’s involvement in the construction of the Canal. “‘Course, I suppose my father was much less interested in construction and more so in social relations, which I suppose is how he ended up with my mother and myself instead of a promotion or two. I didn’t move Stateside until my early teens.”

A small smile pulls at the corner of Johnny’s lips. “So I take that to mean Spanish is your first language.”

“Just don’t ask me to translate something for you,” responds the businessman. “It stands as a point of embarrassment within the family that my oratory skills in the English language somewhat surpassed whatever talent I possessed in the mother tongue.”

“Is that what brought you to Rapture, then?”

“While that might be true enough for some folks around here, I’m a bit more…idealistic, is what someone called it once. You see, I heed the call of Lady Opportunity. Wherever she is, that’s where I’m bound to be, and she has never led me wrong.” Sinclair spreads his arms. “Presently, she’s seen fit to put me here, so here I am, eager and ready to serve the fine people of Rapture.”

And judging from the number of places Johnny has seen the man’s name, he has to concede that things appear to be working out very well for Mr. Augustus Sinclair.

“Mm--but don’t be mistaken; I can still fend for myself in a pinch and I still possess a fairly intact internal dictionary. It’s just that, after so many years, I tend to come out sounding like a tourist.” Sinclair frowns and scratches behind his ear. “I really can’t remember the last time I even uttered a word of it out loud, to be honest.”

“Hm.” Johnny looks into his coffee cup. He shrugs. “Quizás puedes empezar a practicar.”

He watches Sinclair’s face over the rim of his cup. There is recognition of the sounds and syllables in the older man’s eyes, the gears are certainly turning in his head, but what are the odds he actually _understands_ what the diver has just said?

“Quizás…” Sinclair briefly presses his lips together. “Pero es…difícil. Cuando uno no tiene… _(He clears his throat.)_ No--wait--ah…es difícil cuando…no tener…”

Again, he presses his lips together. Johnny frowns a little, feeling a very tiny twinge of guilt.

“It’s--”

“Es que no tengo alguien con quien hablar,” Sinclair finally says, looking pleased with himself.“No tengo…pareja. ¿Pareja? ¿Una pareja?”

Johnny just nods. He offers a little smile. “¿Es tan raro o qué?”

“Not exactly, but all of the major business here is done in English, and most of the people brought in to do all the heavy lifting spoke at least a little bit of it.”

“Ah.”

“You’re likelier to hear it on the docks or in the Farmer’s Market, and even likelier to hear it in certain parts of the city where they’ve banded together culturally.”

“Sounds like you’re a regular visitor of those parts.”

“I wouldn’t say as much, seeing as my work keeps me awful busy, but--” Sinclair shrugs. “--sometimes a man gets a craving for the flavors that remind him of home.”

“Even more so, I suppose, when going home is next to impossible,” Johnny answers.

Sinclair says nothing about this, but there are touches of sympathy on his face. “Give it a bit more time. Get to know her a bit more and I swear this city’ll grow on you before you know it. Hell, a fella like you could make quite a comfortable life for himself down here--and that’s without the ‘open arms’ treatment Rapture’s finest are so keen to give you lately.”

The younger man sighs a little, running a hand through his brown hair. “Maybe you have a point.”

“‘Course, it might help you some if you had a friendly face to help you get established. Living here ain’t like living up there, ‘specially with regards to social graces. You’ve got eyes on you, son, some of them belonging to some very important people--”

“Like Sander Cohen?” asks Johnny, stifling a small cringe over the idea.

Sinclair waves a hand. “Cohen’s got some pull, but nowhere near as much as he likes to think he does. As far as admirers go, you could get worse.”

“I think I have.” When Sinclair raises an eyebrow, Johnny clarifies with, “A reporter from the paper. Pool, I think his last name was--”

“Stanley Poole?”

“Him. Do you know him?”

“We are…acquainted,” Sinclair answers. “Kind of fella you want to keep in your back pocket.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“You give me a few days of your time to fix all that, and you’ll have this town figured out so well, it’ll be like you were born and raised here,” Sinclair offers.

Johnny frowns a little. “I’m not sure I’m ready to commit to Rapture that strongly.”

Sinclair laughs, flashing a wide smile. “Well, let’s start small, then--say…lunch, tomorrow.”

“Lunch?” 

“There’s this, ah, delightful little Mom and Pop run by a couple of Cuban expatriates. They make some of the best sandwiches that I’ve ever had the privilege of paying for. Of course,” Sinclair adds, “if that’s not to your tastes, I could see what my associates recommend. Rapture’s a big enough city to have something for everybody.”

“Quizás.” Johnny crosses his arms and looks at his coffee companion square in the eyes. “Why are you being so kind, Sinclair?”

If the older gentleman is offended by the sudden question, he does not give it away, even as he responds with, “I was unaware I needed an express reason.”

“I’ve only been here three weeks, but I already know that even if Rapture has something for everyone, it’s at some kind of price.” The diver tilts his head. “So what’s yours?”

Sinclair lifts his coffee cup as if to toast the young man’s insight. “Your time. All I want from you is your time. _(He drinks from the cup.)_ And, hey, if I can end up brushing the rust off my tongue, well…I guess we can call that a bonus, can we not?”

Johnny mulls it over. “Quizás.”

“Quizás,” Sinclair echoes cheerfully, pulling out his wallet. “If not tomorrow, maybe the day after. Here--”

The businessman offers him a small black card. Johnny takes it with considerably less hesitancy or wariness than all the others he has not had automatically forced into his hands. All of the pertinent information is printed in bold, blocky font with silver ink.

“This still doesn’t quite answer why.”

“Maybe it’s the work of Lady Opportunity. Could also be I just find you fascinating, like the rest of Rapture.” Sinclair shrugs a little. “Might even be a bit of both.”

“Or neither,” Johnny says.

He shrugs again. “Part of the truth, Johnathan, is I see a bit of me when I look at you--someone with a mind for adapting whatever the situation and enough common sense to keep from getting sidetracked by trivialities. It’s just a matter of learning the rules so you can stay ahead of the game.”

“Hm.” The young man finishes what remains of his coffee and rises. His companion does the same. “I’ll give it some thought.”

“That’s all I can ask of you, though I can’t say I’m the best at being patient.” Sinclair gives him a good-natured look as they shake hands. “Will you be able to find your way back to where you’re staying?”

Johnny assures that he will. (One of the things he is willing to give Rapture credit for is the ease with which one can navigate her streets and the timeliness of her Metro system.) He thanks Sinclair again for his earlier rescue, thanks him for the coffee. He accepts Sinclair’s rabbit pin with some reluctance. (“To start your collection with,” Sinclair tells him, “seeing as mine is already too big.”) They say their goodbyes and part ways. As he walks on his way back to his apartment, Johnny turns the evening’s events over in his mind. He rummages through the conversation for any sign of ill will, scours his recollection of Sinclair’s words for any double-meaning; nothing turns up. Surely, the man has his secrets--and here, Johnny files away the comment about Stanley Poole--but who doesn’t in a town that is, itself, a secret?

_Y te quiere ayudar. (No. Me quiere seguir ayudando.) ¿Y qué es lo malo en eso?_

Nothing. There isn’t a single thing wrong with it, really. Truth be told, he would be grateful for the help--to have a “friendly face”, as Sinclair put it, to rely on.

_Pues, vas a llamar lo, ¿no?_

He looks down at the card again while blindly fitting his key in the front door. There’s something imposing about the style of the card that sets it at odds with the friendly man he just left. Then again, one probably does not wind up with their name attached to so many businesses without being at least somewhat capable of throwing their weight around. And what was it he said--?

“Huh. Hello--” Johnny bends down, picks up the box he nearly tripped over. “¿Que eres tú? ¿De dónde viniste, hm?”

Another gift from another admirer, no doubt. He tosses it, unwrapped, onto the dresser of his bedroom with Sinclair’s pin and business card. Let it all be tomorrow’s problem. Sleep now, or maybe a shower first…

But then curiosity gets the better of him. He finds a book inside the box--Pablo Neruda’s _Residencia en la Tierra_. There is no note. No clue as to the sender’s identity. Simply the book, written by a poet his mother was, coincidentally, quite fond of reading in her spare time.

Johnny sits down on the edge of the bed with the book in his lap. Try as he might, he cannot help wondering again about her welfare. Would she really go to Iceland to look for him? (Of course, she would.) He wonders what she’ll do when she doesn’t find him. The answers he comes up with only serve to make his chest ache.

There has to be a way to get a message out to her. _Somehow_ , just to let her know that he’s alive and safe--relatively speaking.

His gaze flits over to where the business card sits on the dresser.

“Quizás…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations for the Spanish:**  
>  1\. Quizás puedes empezar a practicar. = Maybe you can start practicing.  
> 2\. Pero es…difícil. Cuando uno no tiene… = But it's...difficult. When you don't have...  
> 3\. …es difícil cuando…no tener… = It's difficult when...don't have...  
> 4\. Es que no tengo alguien con quien hablar. = It's just that I don't have anyone to talk to.  
> 5\. No tengo…pareja. ¿Pareja? ¿Una pareja? = I don't have...a partner. Parnter? A partner?  
> 6\. ¿Es tan raro o qué? = Is it that rare or what?  
> 7\. Y te quiere ayudar. (No. Me quiere seguir ayudando.) ¿Y qué es lo malo en eso? = He wants to help you. (No, he wants to keep helping me.) And what's wrong with that?  
> 8\. Pues, vas a llamar lo, ¿no? = So, you're going to call him, right?  
> 9\. ¿Que eres tú? ¿De dónde viniste, hm? = What are you? Where did you come from, hm?  
> 10\. _Residencia En La Tierra_ = _Residence on Earth_ (a collection of poetry by Pablo Neruda).


	3. Breakfast with Brigid

Breakfast with Brigid Tenenbaum almost always has little to do with actually eating breakfast and more with exchanging information. They are friends, which means the information usually benefits both of them, but sometimes Augustus Sinclair catches himself wondering how or why it is they get along so well. She is brilliant at what she does, no doubt about that, and the enthusiasm she has for her work has always been one of the things that he respects about her. If Sinclair ever has to put money on it, though, perhaps it has most to do with her ability to adapt and survive situations others could not. He knows about her history in the Nazi camp, how she survived through assimilation. On the surface, it might have made her the subject of reproach. Down here, however, it has made her something of a role model--a regular matron saint for little girls striving to succeed at all costs.

Presently, this living saint sits on the edge of Sinclair’s desk, stirring sugar into her mug of tea. Sinclair sits in his chair opposite her, feet propped up. A box of blueberry scones sits open between them. Work has kept them busy in different places. They have been catching up.

“So,” she says to him, “I’m hearing you left Cohen’s art show early.”

“Have you?” asks Sinclair calmly.

“And not alone,” Tenenbaum adds, tapping her spoon against the rim of the mug.

“Oh, is that so?”

“They are saying it was a man.” She smiles a little as she lifts her tea. “A younger man. The new one to come to Rapture.”

Sinclair laughs a little. “Uh-huh! Well, they say quite a lot, don’t they? Anytime someone so much as scratches an _itch_ , this town becomes worse than my Aunt Nellie’s sewing circle. Next they’ll be saying that I’m getting married--again. Do you remember that?”

“It was not such a bad rumor,” Tenenbaum admits.

“Oh, for you, maybe! You didn’t have Frank Fontaine drunkenly threatening to have his boys reenact the Burning of Atlanta in your apartment!” he reminds her. “How is old Ulysses S. Grant, anyway?”

“As he always is.”

“You could do so much better. You _are_ aware of that, aren’t you?”

The geneticist sighs. “Only every time you remind me.”

“Because it’s true! In fact--” Sinclair takes his feet of the desk and leans forward. “--I know this _really_ charming fella working at the jeweler’s out across the way from Cohen’s place--?”

“I thought we were discussing the charming young man you were with last night,” Tenenbaum reminds him, setting down her tea. “Tell me more about him instead.”

The businessman rolls his eyes. “In my continued interest in shaming the Devil, the boy’s about as intentionally charming as an ant at a spring picnic.”

She makes a small sound. “So, not what you hoped, then.”

“Not initially, no, but there are still quite a few redeeming qualities hovering about young Mr. Topside, and I can’t shake the feeling that his lack of charm is an intentional thing. A defensive mechanism, if you will.”

“Not too surprising, given circumstances.”

“There is potential to him, though. Boy’s got a keen eye. That’ll help a lot down here.”

“Unless he goes back to the surface.” Tenenbaum picks up her tea again, sips at it before adding, “I hear other things; that Ryan may call for the Council to review the decision on whether he gets to stay or not.”

Sinclair perks. This, he definitely has not heard. “When?”

“It’s only rumor,” she answers with a shrug. “I haven’t gotten word, directly. I don’t think he will.”

“Not with the risk of all his precious secrets going back up there, no.”

“And yet, you still look worried.”

“Hm?” The businessman raises his eyebrows. He shakes his head. “Not worried, no. Not exactly.”

Concerned, more like it. The trouble of a secret city is making sure it stays a secret, and Sinclair is no stranger to the lengths some people will go to keep things hidden. If Andrew Ryan is having misgivings about letting the young man wander around unsupervised… Maybe it would be a smart move to make an appointment with the father of Rapture, if only just to offer a few careful words of advice.

“Have you heard from him again?”

“What?”

“The young man,” Tenenbaum clarifies. “Has he called you?”

“Oh.” Sinclair shakes his head. “No, but I am not the least bit concerned.”

“No?” She fixes him with an incredulous look.

“Not a bit, my dearest Tenenbaum. Of course, I’d like him to come calling, but it’s only been three days.”

“True.”

“A lot can keep a person busy over three days.”

The geneticist nods. “Of course.”

“Besides,” adds Sinclair, “I’ve got a lot on my own plate as it is. A couple rooms in the Deluxe have pipes that need repairing, suppliers need meeting with--”

“No time, virtually, to hold vigil by the telephone,” Tenenbaum says with another nod and a small smile.

The implication is not at all lost on him. “Why, Dr. Brigid Tenenbaum, I am surprised by you.”

“What?” Her face becomes a mask of innocence.

“All these years of friendship! I am shocked and appalled that you would insinuate such things about my character.”

“Who is insinuating? What? I imply nothing,” she says.

“Uh-huh.” Sinclair picks up a scone, jabbing it in the air in her direction. “Now, I’ll have you know that I am not some young girl before her first spring cotillion! I am just offering the boy a hand of assistance, a—a-a neighborly bit of goodwill, is all.”

“Goodwill,” Tenenbaum echoes.

“Just to get him better established around here. No more, no less.”

“I will admit, this is a bit…unusual, coming from you,” Tenenbaum says.

He swallows a mouthful of pastry. “Oh, is it?”

“Of course,” she adds, “there is value in gaining his trust. People are enthralled with him. He could exert a considerable amount of influence.”

“All the more reason to make sure that Mr. Johnny Topside falls in line with the right people,” Sinclair answers. “Why, just imagine what a tragedy it would be if those damn protesters were able to bend his ear and break his heart with their siren songs! Now, we can’t have that happen, can we? It would be a gross disservice to ourselves, to him, and most of all to the fair city of Rapture.”

And he gives his friend one of his bright salesman smiles, to which Tenenbaum only chuckles.

“Now,” she says as his phone begins to ring, “you sound more like yourself.”

“I am all I know how to be, my dearest Tenenbaum. It’s a poor and foolish man, don’t know how to be himself most.” He puts the receiver to his ear. “Augustus Sinclair speaking.”

_“Sinclair? Ah, hello.”_

An arc of lightning flashes through the businessman’s chest. The half-eaten scone drops to the desk. He swallows his current mouthful hard and tries to control his face, but judging from the look Tenenbaum gives him—

_“Sinclair? It’s Johnny Topsi—”_

“No! No, I remember. Johnathan, hello.” Sinclair clears his throat, shoots the woman a warning look when she claps a hand over her mouth to stifle an amused sound. “How’re you holding, kid?”

 _“Fairly well. Thank you. I—”_ There is what sounds like a short sigh on the other end. _“I want to apologize, first, because I rather meant to call sooner, but—”_

“No, no, no! There’s no need! There’s no harm done. A-ah—” He switches the receiver to his other ear so he can use his dominant hand to wave Tenenbaum away when she tries to lean in. “So—so how can I be of service to you?”

 _“Actually, I think this may be a bit more complicated than I can discuss over the phone,”_ Johnny answers. _“Are you free to meet with me today? I could come to your office or… I-I mean, if your offer of meeting for lunch still exists…”_

“Let me check my--”

The loud sound of something landing on his desk causes Sinclair to nearly jump out of his chair. It’s his planner, dropped there for him by Tenenbaum, who merely shrugs and smiles when he shoots her another look. Casually, she fixes another cup of tea, humming under her breath a tune he cannot recognize. This woman, honestly.

“Here’s the bad news first, kid. It turns out I’ve got a couple meetings on my list this afternoon--”

_“Ah…”_

“--but my evening is completely clear.” Okay, truth be told, there _is_ a dinner party invitation stapled to the corner of today’s page, but it’s from nobody very important. “I could meet you for dinner, say, around eight o’clock?”

There is silence from the other end. On the other side of his desk, Tenenbaum is sipping her tea and pulling cards from his restaurant rolodex. _This woman, honestly!_

_“Eight o’clock will be fine.”_

“Oh, good! Good.” And Sinclair allows himself to smile. “What’s say we meet outside the Mercury Suites at eight and go from there? I got a few places in mind that I’m pretty sure will catch your fancy.”

_“All right, then. Eight?”_

“Eight.”

_“Okay._ _Hasta después.”_

He waits until he hears the click and dial tone of a disconnected line before he hangs up the phone. He presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose and wonders why it feels like he might be having a small heart attack.

“You’re blushing,” Tenenbaum points out.

Sinclair opts to respond with the most ungentlemanly of gestures.

“So like a child.” She drops in front of him the selection of cards pulled from his rolodex. “Take him somewhere small, quiet.”

“Too likely to give him the wrong idea.” He puts the half-eaten scone back in the box, organizes the cards as he gives a glance at the clock. “Damn--”

“What?”

“I have to be down at the Deluxe to meet the repairmen soon--” The businessman gets up, fetches his suit jacket from the coatrack. He goes to a file cabinet and pulls out three folders; this he carries under his arm with his planner. “Businesses don’t run themselves, y’know.”

“Just don’t get so distracted you miss your date,” Tenenbaum warns him.

Sinclair laughs a little, throwing an arm around her shoulders as he leads her to the door. “You, my dearest Tenenbaum--you are a right thorn in my side sometimes, y’know that? A right proper thorn.”

“You said so yourself,” answers the geneticist, “I am all I know how to be.”

“Aha, well, that is true, and I would not ask you to change an inch.” Sinclair presses a kiss into her hair before taking the invitation from his planner and giving it to her. “Here. You do me a kind favor and you make old Ulysses take you somewhere nice tonight.”


	4. It is Totally Not a Date

They meet at the appointed time, at the appointed place. When Johnny sees Sinclair approach in his suit, he briefly wonders if his sweater and slacks might make him a touch underdressed for this outing. It ends up being Sinclair who apologizes for his outfit choice, however. A meeting with investors in one of Rapture’s wealthier parts required him to dress like a guest at another of those high society parties.

“Investors here care almost twice as much about how you present yourself as they do about how much richer you can make them than the next fella who comes along.”

“Is that part of playing the game in Rapture?”

“One of the easier ones, sure,” Sinclair answers, “but we can discuss that all a bit later on. Shall we start on towards dinner?”

Dinner is waiting at a little bistro located in a part of the city that reminds Johnny of home almost as soon as the step off the train. Spanish eclipses English. Murals of seascapes and folkloric heroes cover the facades of businesses and homes alike. Old men play dominoes and drink beer outside of bars, yelling at any little kid who goes running by. The smell of cilantro and garlic drifts from the open doorway of another little restaurant, and people stand in the middle of the street selling bags of produce. A girl who cannot be older than maybe nine or ten approaches them with plastic bags containing small green fruit still on the branches. Johnny stalls, pointing to the fruit with some measure of disbelief.

“¿Quenepas?”

The girl gives him a gap-toothed smile. “Si, señor, y frescas también.”

“Cuanto--ah, Sinclair, wait--”

“Hm?” The businessman turns, one eyebrow raised.

“Just one moment--” Johnny pulls out his wallet. “¿A cuanto son por una bolsa?”

“Cinco.”

“¿Cinco?”

“What on earth are those?” asks Sinclair.

“They’re--wait--dos, tres, cuatro, cin--quenepas.”

“Que-what?”

“Quenepas. Toma.” The diver gives the child money with one hand and takes a bag with the other. “Gracias.”

“¡Gracias a ti, señor!”

They continue on. When asked, Johnny explains that the money is from a combination of gifts from admirers and a handful of odd jobs he has picked up since the Central Council agreed he could stay in Rapture.

“What sorts of odd jobs?”

“Translation work, mostly. Letters, books, contracts …” Johnny shrugs. “Spanish to English and back again. Fees depend on what I’m translating, but usually it’s by the hour.”

He opts to leave out the uncomfortable amount of well-off customers who require his help communicating with their own employees. He also decides to leave out the looks on those employees’ faces when he manages to play on the ignorance of his customers to negotiate more favorable pay or working conditions. It isn’t concern that Sinclair might disapprove but rather the chance that word might get back to those very clients, intentionally or not.

_Pero lo vas a preguntar si el té ayudara con algo que tiene la posibilidad de ser ilegal. Qué bonito, mi’jo._

Ah, but even that isn’t entirely certain yet. As they sit at a table nestled into one of the bistro’s cozy crimson corners, making small talk over beer and Cuban sandwiches, Johnny takes the opportunity to really size him up. Augustus Sinclair has a streak of the showman in him. He talks loudly but clearly, always with a tone designed to make you feel like the two of you are old friends. There is an air of sophistication hanging around him, one that he transfers onto whomever he’s with. Johnny has no doubts that Sinclair has seen the inside of a university--or, at the very least, that he is very good at making people believe he has. And, surely, it helps that he has a quality of handsomeness to him, doesn’t it? That adopted Southern charm would only get him so far along by itself, especially down here. The careful styling, the flash of a brilliant smile…

Johnny wonders how much of it is intentional cultivation and how much is the result of having to learn the art of misdirection. How long did it take him to completely trade away any trace of Panama that lurked in his voice? How hard was it to flatten his R’s, to pull himself back before he fell into Spanish in the presence of other speakers? How often did he have to pretend he didn’t recognize what was being said around him--until it was finally mostly true?

If Augustus Sinclair knows anything about playing the game that governs socializing in Rapture, and if he is as good at it as he claims to be, it’s only because he has had half a lifetime to build up an advantage.

“So,” asks Sinclair somewhere around the middle of their dinner, “what was it that you bought from that kid out in the street? What is it you called ‘em? Que--uh--”

“Quenepas.” Johnny pulls out one of the branches and twists off one of the green fruits. “I didn’t expect to see them down here.”

“People are ingenious when it comes to figuring out what will and won’t survive down here. May I?” Sinclair twists one off for himself after Johnny nods. “They look familiar enough…”

“The flesh at the center is what you eat. Only--well, no--you don’t actually _eat_ it--”

“No?”

The younger man shakes his head, breaking the shell with his teeth to expose the pale orange flesh inside. “You suck on it.”

He tries not to laugh at the way Sinclair’s eyes widen just slightly before clearing his throat, if only to avoid causing a scene by choking on the tangy fruit. So he can be knocked off his guard. That could be useful to keep in mind.

“You don’t--mm--” Johnny pins the pit between his cheek and lower jaw. “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to. It’s a little sour, a touch sweet; bit of an acquired taste.”

“Acquired taste, is it?”

“Mm-hm.”

Sinclair looks at the fruit. “How do you open it again?”

And Johnny bares his front teeth in a smile. “Just bite around the shell ‘til it comes off like a top. Oh, but--cuidado--”

“What?”

“The juice,” he says. “It’ll stain if you get it on your clothes.”

“Well, I shall certainly take the necessary caution, thank you.” And Sinclair flashes one of those brilliant smiles before peeling away the top half of the fruit’s shell and popping the pit into his mouth. A studious look crosses his features. “Oh, it’s… Huh. It ain’t…bad, that’s for sure. It’s kind of like…bit like a lime, but sweeter.”

“I suppose.” Johnny shrugs. “I used to eat them like candy.”

“No, I--I definitely see the appeal,” he answers. “I think I could maybe get to liking this.”

“A willingness to try something new. That’s a reassuring trait.” Johnny offers him a more genuine smile of his own this time. He draws in a small breath. “Listen, Sinclair--about why I called you--?”

The older man perks. “I was beginning to wonder when we would get to that, but first--dessert?”

Johnny shakes his head, gesturing to the plastic bag. He uses the time it takes for Sinclair to order two pastelitos to figure out the phrasing of his next words. What if the businessman says no? How will he play it off then?

“So, how might I be of the utmost service to you?” asks Sinclair.

“Well, it depends.”

“On?”

“The likelihood that you know someone with access to the surface,” Johnny answers, “and…if they might be willing to share that access.”

Sinclair clears his throat again. He lifts the cloth napkin to his mouth, likely to spit out the pit. “Hypothetically speaking, let’s say the likelihood that I might know of at least one person like that is very good. Why exactly would you need that kinda access?”

“Not to escape, if that’s what you’re thinking. No, I--I guess it’s safe to say that I’ve accepted staying here for the long term.”

“She’s growing on you, ain’t she? The city?”

“In little ways.” Johnny nods. “But I have… I guess we could call it unfinished business.”

“Meaning?”

“My mother.” Johnny frowns a little. He scratches the back of his neck. “We were very close, you see. I can’t just leave her wondering what happened to me, worrying that I’ve died or… _(He sighs.)_ I’ve written a letter.”

“A letter?” asks Sinclair.

“Just a short message to put her at ease. Nothing that reveals any secrets.”

“Still, a letter? Won’t that just make things worse, encourage her further--?”

“No. I know her,” Johnny tells him. “Even if they’ve come up with some…theory or story about what _might have_ happened to me, she won’t be satisfied with that. If she hears from me, though and if she knows that I’m all right…

“I would be willing to pay anything, and…if you were to assist me,” he adds, locking eyes with his dining companion, “I would certainly be in your debt.”

The waitress arrives, sets down the plate of pastries. A ponderous look crosses the businessman’s face as she leaves and he picks up the first pastelito. “You’re aware ol’ Andrew Ryan ain’t exactly a big fan of reaching back up there once you’re down here. ‘Course…it ain’t exactly like there’s any _law_ on the books against that sort of thing. Hell, there ain’t really any laws at all. It’s the whole point of being down here. Still, it is sort of…frowned upon.”

“So you’re saying I should abandon the idea.”

“Now, hold on; I didn’t say that. I’m just making you aware of the situation. This isn’t something you just do lightly.”

“I gathered as much,” Johnny answers. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

“Hm?”

“You seem to understand the importance of discretion,” he elaborates.

Sinclair laughs a little. “In my line of work, I’ve learned that a man who can keep secrets is a man who succeeds where others fail. It might take me some time, and I can’t make any guarantees, but I’ll see what I can do.”

It goes a way towards lifting a bit of the weight in the diver’s chest. “Thank you.”

“In the meantime, I might just have some work I can pass along your way--assuming, of course, you’re interested.”

“I would say that I am certainly interested.”

“Well, good. We can get on discussing that tomorrow. I’m afraid I’m a bit all worked out after the meetings I’ve had.” Sinclair leans back in his chair, scratches above his left eyebrow with his thumb. He fixes Johnny with a strange little look. “Let me ask you something--”

“Sure.”

“You manage to find anything fun to do since you’ve gotten here? I’m not talking about those high-end parties with Rapture’s stuffiest and most uptight. I mean real, honest-to-God entertainment. We’ve got that here, if you haven’t found it yet.”

“Hm. Well--” Johnny bites into the shell of another of those little green fruits. “--I would have to say that, if it exists, I have yet to find it.”

Sinclair leans forward, the strange look becoming very clearly the sparkle of mischief in his eyes. “Well, how would you like to?”

It is, Johnny has to admit, a little bit infectious.

“What did you have in mind?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translation Notes:**  
>  1\. “Si, señor, y frescas también.” = Yes, sir, and fresh, too.  
> 2\. “Cuanto--” = How much--  
> 3\. “¿A cuanto son por una bolsa?” = How much for one bag?  
> 4\. “Cinco.” = Five  
> 5\. “--dos, tres, cuatro, cin--” = --two, three, four, fi--  
> 6\. "Toma. Gracias." = Here. Thanks.  
> 7\. “¡Gracias a ti, señor!” = Thank you, sir!  
> 8\. Pero lo vas a preguntar si el té ayudara con algo que tiene la posibilidad de ser ilegal. Qué bonito, mi’jo. = And yet you're going to ask him to help you with something that is possibly illegal. Great job, man! (Mi'jo = mi hijo, which literally translates to _my son_ , but in this case...)
> 
>  **Food Notes:**  
>  \- [Quenepas](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quenepas) are a real fruit found in Latin America. They exist in Panama, but Sinclair would have known them by the word _mamoncillo_ instead.
> 
> \- [Pastelitos](http://www.tasteofcuba.com/pastelitos.html) are a Cuban pastry dish that, from what I've read, can be either sweet or savory. (I didn't write in the flavor like I wanted because it disrupted the sentence flow, but Sinclair bought ones filled with sweet guava paste.)


	5. There's Always a Morning After

“So--” Tenenbaum lights a cigarette and takes a long pull. The smoke curls in the air above her as she exhales. “--what happened with you two, then, after the dinner?”

Sinclair runs a hand through his dark hair, frowning. He shifts in his desk chair, unable to look at her directly. He reaches for an apple turnover from the box on the desk between them, then decides against it.

“I mean, what is there to tell? It was a decent evening. We had a good dinner--”

“But _after_ ,” Tenenbaum says. “What happened after?”

“After…”

“You went out after, yes? That’s what I understood from when you called last night.”

“Oh. To be honest, I didn’t think I’d actually…” Sinclair scratches the back of his neck. “A-anyway, yes, we went out after dinner.”

“So?” She taps the ash from her cigarette. “Tell me.”

Ah, but where does Sinclair even _start_? To tell the truth, much of the night is still a blur in his aching mind. There are bursts of clear recollection--bright and vivid, as if illuminated by the flash bulb of a camera--and these are the memories that leave him uncharacteristically unsettled. But now that he has someone trustworthy to talk to, where does he start?

At the beginning, perhaps.

At what he last clearly remembers.

Yes. Let’s start there.

Last night they went to dinner and it was fine. The boy had propositioned him (sought his help, better to say) and Sinclair agreed to do what he could. Then what? He offered to show the kid some of the real fun to be had in Rapture. After all, who goes three weeks without a little enjoyment, especially in _this_ town? And the young man agreed, didn’t he? Had asked what Sinclair had in mind, even.

“But we had to stop at his place first; said he wanted to drop off the fruit he bought in the Spanish District.”

“And,” asks Tenenbaum, “did he let you inside?”

“Ah, well, no. He asked me to wait outside.”

“And you did.”

“Well, I’m no Sander Cohen, Tenny. I was raised to be a gentleman.”

“Fair enough.” She shrugs. “So he dropped off his bag of fruit. Then what?”

“Well, I figured we’d start off light, so we went over to Eve’s Garden to see the performance art of one Miss Jasmine Jolene.”

The only problem was that she was not performing last night. (Something about a flu or whatever; he honestly cannot recall.) There were other girls, though, just as pretty and finally able to shine in the absence of the Garden’s normal star. A few of them took quite the quick liking to young Mr. Topside. They danced their way towards him, draped their feathered boas and silk veils over their shoulders; blew kisses and flirted freely. Oh, they did the same for Sinclair, too, and for the other men in the club--difference was that he and the other men had to dangle the lure of money first. By contrast, it seemed like the only currency Johnny Topside needed was his very presence.

“And I mean, I guess it ain’t exactly hard to see why,” Sinclair says.

“He _is_ fairly handsome.” Tenenbaum nods, shaking ash from her cigarette. “A bit too aloof, however.”

“Aloof. Sure.”

“Hm?”

“I could’ve used that word last night. He was… It was like it was funny to him, almost, that he was getting all that attention.”

It wasn’t that Johnny dismissed their advances. When the girls flirted, he certainly flirted right back, and as the night (or rather, the drinking) went on, the boy was increasingly bold. It was just that there was something… Sinclair couldn’t pinpoint what it was, exactly, but Johnny’s behavior with the women struck him as being _different_. It was like they were sharing some inside joke. They laughed and cooed over him, fought to share his lap between their routines, and he merely looked amused by it all. He would occasionally give Sinclair little looks that Sinclair interpreted as coming from a young man who could not believe his own luck.

Or, perhaps, that’s just how the several rum and colas told him to interpret those looks.

“How much did you have to drink?”

“Too much,” Sinclair admits. “I lost count after we left the Garden for another bar.”

Truth be told, it eludes him exactly how many bars they visited. He remembers a drinking game between Johnny and a Russian dock worker at one place, the sound of cheers and surprise as the dock worker passed out. At another place, there was a card game where Sinclair won three hundred dollars mostly through the skill of his bluff. They escaped a fight at another bar, didn’t they? But then they found a bar with friendlier faces and more pretty women who draped themselves over both men as they laughed and talked and continued drinking. That was the bar with the live band, too, wasn’t it? Or maybe that was at still _another_ bar… It breaks down into a blur when he tries to recall it more clearly, but he remembers how Johnny’s green eyes lit up in response to a specific song--

“I can’t remember if they just played it, or if he asked them to play it, but I remember that the song was just…loud, fast; and he seemed to know it right away.”

A little smile pulls at Tenenbaum’s lips. “And did you, ah…oh, how do the Americans say it--?”

“What--?”

“Cut a rug! That’s--” She snuffs her stub of a cigarette. “Did you two cut a rug last night?”

Sinclair scoffs. “Now you know I’m not much of a dancing man!”

“Oh?”

“But he can be rather…persuasive…” Sinclair sinks in his chair.

Her smile only widens. “Persuasive. A useful trait in this city.”

“Oh, you’d think so!” The businessman frowns. He rubs at his still-aching temples, trying to block out the memory of being pulled onto the dance floor. “You _would_ be impressed by persuasiveness.”

“As easily as you, apparently.” The scientist picks up a turnover. “So! You danced with him. Is that why you called me so panicked?”

“Oh, I was _not_ \--” But that defense dies quickly under one of Tenenbaum’s knowing looks. He sighs heavily. “No.”

“Then…?”

Sinclair is silent for a little while, mouth trying to find the most properly-fitting words with which to begin describing the reason he called her in a drunken half-panic last night. It is difficult. None of the words feels right. The memories are like smoke in his still-aching head. They blend and blur, intangible enough that he can almost convince himself it was just a drunk dream! But then his hands get that odd feeling--an itch that is not quite an itch--that always strikes when he tries to make the memories clearer. All he ever gets are vivid flashes of sensations.

The uneasy gait of their tangled feet on the way home.

The feel of their arms around each other’s shoulders, each keeping the other upright and out of the collision path of more sober people.

Johnny’s voice rising and falling with the song from the last bar; words slurred, weaving unevenly between English and Spanish; laughter light and breathy in Sinclair’s ear.

There is a gap between the walk home and the apartment, and then his memories pick up again, in the dimly-lit interior of his apartment. He remembers tension in the air. More laughter.

The sparkle of green eyes and the flash of smiles.

The weight of another person, heavy but comfortable across his lap.

The warmth of knowing hands versus the heat of an eager mouth…

And that’s about the point at which Tenenbaum looks as though she might fall off her perch on his desk.

“You _what?_ ”

“N-n-not--we passed out before--but it remains that it…happened. Almost happened.” Sinclair tries to sink further into his chair, trying to rub the feeling out of his palms. “I woke up alone, in my own bed, with a headache and just a note.”

“Which said?” She takes it almost too eagerly when Sinclair pulls it out of his planner. Her eyebrows knit together. “I can’t read it.”

“Because it’s in Spanish,” Sinclair tells her, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “It says to call him after I’ve done what he’s asked--which reminds me, good Dr. Tenenbaum; what’re the odds your old Ulysses might be inclined to do me a personal favor?”

Tenenbaum gives a small shrug. “You’ll have to ask Fontaine yourself, if you want his help.”

He groans disapprovingly. “Rather get a haircut from an epileptic having a seizure. No, I think I’m gonna see if I can pull some other strings first. I’m pretty sure I’ve got a friendlier face who still owes me some favors.”

“And the boy? What are you going to do about him?”

“I am going to be the gentleman and respect his request not to call until I’ve done as he has asked of me--and maybe I will take my time doing it. Maybe by the time I get it done, he’ll forget the whole thing ever happened.”

The scientist puts the note down on the desk, lips setting into a line. “I think you’re being too hard on yourself.”

Sinclair looks up at her incredulously. “Well, that’s very sweet--”

“And,” she adds, “I think you underestimate him.”

“Oh, you do?”

“You said yourself that he’s persuasive, that his lack of charm might be intentional.” Tenenbaum lights another cigarette.

“Well, yeah, but do you really think--?”

“I don’t know. But how much do you know about him, and how much does he know about you?”

And Sinclair realizes, with a note of discomfort, that he is much more reluctant to answer the question than he probably should be.


	6. Book. Booking. Booked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, readers! I bet you thought you'd seen the last of me!
> 
> I can't promise this will be the start of regular updates, and I wish I knew why it took me so long between this chapter and the last, but I am super grateful for your patience and hopefully the muse will let me be more frequent. Thank you. <3

Three weeks. That’s how long Johnny manages to hold out before finally rummaging through his apartment to find the little business card Sinclair gave him on their first meeting. Three whole weeks! And not even on purpose, really; it just sort of happened that way. His reputation as a skilled translator spread quickly enough that jobs began stockpiling practically overnight, requiring more focus (and simultaneously providing excellent defense against unwanted invites to social gatherings). Between his rising success and the recent addition of a stray cat, it is honestly a wonder that he noticed how Sinclair has yet to call—even if their last discussion did more or less ask him to break the law.

Rather, their last _sober_ discussion.

Johnny pauses, a book in each hand. The events of that night remain a blur of lights, music, and color. There was dancing. Laughter. It was enjoyable—perhaps the first night in which he did not actively long for home. And the way it ended, well… It’s certainly not the first time, and it’s not like he was _lured in_ or _seduced_. If there _is_ any regret, it probably lies in not taking time to leave Sinclair some painkillers and a glass of water on his night table.

_¡Pero decidiste esperar tanto tiempo para llamarlo pa’tras!_

Not intentionally, no. Not on purpose! I mean, sure, _maybe_ Johnny could have spared a visit to Sinclair’s office—some of his clients live in that area of the city, so there was totally the chance they may have even briefly crossed paths—but these translation jobs require so much time to do properly. And things are so expensive here that every dollar has to count—

_Y encima de eso, perdiste el jodio número._

No! Not true! It is not lost! Just misplaced. Stuffed into one of these books…

“When did I buy so many…?”

Of course, here he has to stop and remember that quite a number of the books beginning to fill his apartment are not, in fact, direct purchases but rather gifts—most of these from an admirer with a weekly schedule. No name. No note. Just the books. Johnny frowns. That he has yet to figure out who it is sending him these things—and _why_ , for that matter—remains a cause for concern.

Still, myths and fables, poetry, historical biographies; whoever is leaving him these gifts, at least they have good taste in literature.

Not that Johnny doesn’t have his suspicions.

“¿Qué piensas?” Johnny smiles a little as the orange tabby comes into view. “Quizás Sinclair es la que me está mandando todos estos libros—¿pero para cual razón…?”

Certainly, that serves as a good enough reason to call him, no? To find out? If there is one thing Johnny has deduced about one Augustus Sinclair, it’s that the man sure does love to talk. Then again, when that talk turns to himself, he is awfully quick to throw up a guard. And anyway, why does _Johnny_ have to be the initiator? Surely, Sinclair’s phone works, doesn’t it? The man can’t be _that_ wrapped up in running his own little empire that he can’t spare a few minutes—

“Oh—”

The business card flutters down and lands quietly on the floor, escaping its post as a placeholder in a little book of poetry. The cat notices and leaps after it.

“Hey! No—!” Johnny scoops up the cat just as she catches the card between her teeth. “Abre—”

The tabby relinquishes her prize with no struggle, lurking around his ankles after Johnny returns her to the floor. There is a slight bend on one end and the corners are slightly worn, but somehow it still manages to retain the air of stateliness reflective of its owner. Most importantly, the phone number is still legible. It probably still works, too. Why would anyone bother to change their phone number down here? Can’t be that easy to do, anyway…

_Bueno. ¿Vas darle una llamada o qué?_

He draws in a breath. He pictures it; sitting down at his desk, picking up the receiver, dialing digit after digit; waiting as the phone rings, and rings, and rings—

Johnny puts the business card down on his desk. He sits down slowly. The cat leaps into his lap and stares up at him quizzically. Perhaps it might be better to determine what he should say before he calls.

“¿Qué piensas? Hm? What should we say to Mr. Sinclair?”

If the cat cares at all, she makes no sign; only waits until he finally relents and scratches behind her ears. If only people were as simple to deal with!

Maybe some people are.

Johnny heaves a small sigh. He picks up the receiver. He tries not to think about how he needed to glance at the card only once in order to dial the number correctly. He waits as it rings.

And it rings.

And it rings.

And it rings—

_“Hello?”_

The voice on the other end is a woman’s; heavily accented like she might be from Germany or somewhere nearby, and just familiar enough to tickle the very edge of Johnny’s memory.

“Hello, I’m…” He clears his throat. “Is this the office of Augustus Sinclair?”

_“Ah, yes—”_ And there is a sound like something (or, perhaps, someone) shuffling around. _“Who is calling?”_

“I’m—”

For a moment, Johnny stalls. What name does he use? Which one would Sinclair be most likely to remember?

_“Hello?”_

“Johnathan. My name is Johnathan Acevedo. Is Mr. Sinclair in?”

The woman on the other end makes a thoughtful sound. _“Sadly, no. He has stepped out.”_

“Oh…” Why does he feel so disappointed? Given the number of businesses bearing that man’s name, surely Johnny figured there would be a chance Sinclair would be out of his office! “Well—”

_“I can take message for you. Ah—or better—! I make you appointment to see him directly.”_

“What? No. No, no, no—that’s not—” Johnny does his best to keep his voice level. “That really isn’t necessary—”

_“He is free all this afternoon. I can put you down for lunch or—no—maybe later is better, yes? He has—ach, no, wait—”_

The woman on the other side is flipping through pages and murmuring quietly to herself. Why is her voice so _familiar_? Why hasn’t Johnny stopped her?

Why doesn’t he just hang up?

_“Four o’clock!”_

“I—” Johnny blinks. “Wh-what?”

_“Four o’clock,”_ the woman on the other end repeats. _“You come by office, four o’clock; Sinclair will see you then.”_

“But I just—” The line dies. Johnny stares at the phone in disbelief. “Rallo me parta…”

The cat nudges her head against his free hand, likely only interested in figuring out why the head-scratching has stopped and how she might get him to resume the display of affection.

_No tienes que ir._

Well, sure, nobody is obligating him to go. Hell, staying in might be the catalyst for getting Sinclair to call him first! He certainly seems like the kind of man who wouldn’t take quietly to being stood up…

But something within him, perhaps his conscience dressed in memories of his mother, chides Johnny for even considering the idea. It isn’t _right_. It’s petty. Childish. Something better reserved for, say, dodging an invitation from Sander Cohen or Stanley Poole—

The phone rings. Johnny picks up before it has a chance to do so a second time.

“Hello?”

_“Mr. Topside! Glad I finally caught ya at home!”_ Stanley’s voice is uncomfortably warm and overly friendly. _“How are ya, sir?”_

“Busy, actually—” Johnny grabs two of his books and drops them on his desk from a short height. “You’ve caught me just getting in from seeing a client this morning.”

_“Oh, that so? Heh, I-I suppose you would be…”_ Poole clears his throat. _“Listen, Mr. Topside, I don’t wanna take up too much of your time, but the people’re clamorin’ to hear your voice.”_

“Suppose that explains why I’ve had gotten so much work lately. Guess the news really does travel fast in Rapture.”

_“Ahaha—funny, Topside. That’s funny. People like that—”_

“Look, ah…Mr. Poole—”

_“Oh, Stanley. Call me Stanley! I insist—”_

“Stanley…” Johnny draws himself up straight. “I’m afraid I’m just not very—”

_“I promise you no third-degrees! No hard questions. It’s just a little fluff piece, to be honest. A profile on the newest face in Rapture. Shouldn’t take me more than an hour, maybe two, tops. Whaddaya say? Are you free today? I got some leads I gotta chase, but there’s this nice little bistro— What’re you, uh… Y—y’know, how do you feel about meetin’ up at around—at about four or so?”_

“Four o’clock?”

_“Yeah, four. Maybe even after, if you’re feeling up for somethin’ later. Even a busy man like you’s gotta have some evenin’ hours free, right?”_ The hopefulness in Stanley’s voice only serves to make Johnny feel even more uncomfortable. He has no idea _why_ , only that it _does_. _“Whaddaya think? You got some time to spare this afternoon for a few questions?”_

Aha. So this is what it is, to sit between a rock and a hard place. Johnny looks up at the ceiling.

“Actually… I’m afraid I’m booked.”

_“You’re booked?”_

“Sorry to say.” He picks up Sinclair’s business card. “I have an appointment with a, um, a Mister Augustus Sinclair.”

_“Sinclair? You know Sinclair?”_ There is a pause on the other end of the line. _“L-listen, Topside, I gotta go. Suddenly just realized I’m gonna be late for one’uh my other leads, but, uh—I-I-I’ll call you later. See if we can, uh, maybe schedule somethin’ for some other day.”_

“Sure.”

_“Good, good. Yeah…”_ Again comes a pause. _“Well, I’ll talk to ya soon.”_

Johnny sits in silence for a moment after the call ends. He looks at the card. Second time now, it seems, that Sinclair has gotten him away from unwanted attention.

It might not be such a bad idea to bring a gift, no?

He wonders if Sinclair likes to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translation for all the Spanish:**  
>  1\. ¡Pero decidiste esperar tanto tiempo para llamarlo pa’tras! = But you decided to wait so long to call him back!  
> 2\. Y encima de eso, perdiste el jodio número. = And on top of everything else, you lost his damn number.  
> 3\. “¿Qué piensas? Quizás Sinclair es la que me está mandando todos estos libros—¿pero para cual razón…?” = "What do you think? Maybe Sinclair is sending me all these books--but why...?"  
> 4\. "Abre--" = "Open--"  
> 5\. Bueno. ¿Vas darle una llamada o qué? = Well. Are you gonna call him or what?  
> 6\. “¿Qué piensas?" = "What do you think?"  
> 7\. “Rallo me parta…” = Slightly more difficult to directly translate, but it's generally used when someone's frustrated/annoyed with a situation? (Essentially, "dammit!") That's how I've always heard it applied in my house.  
> 8\. No tienes que ir. = You don't have to go.


	7. Surprise, Surprise

It takes a lot to surprise Augustus Sinclair. A lot. Even more, really, since coming down to live in Rapture. In fact, if pressed on the matter, he would be forced to admit that he cannot actually recall a time in recent history when he was struck by true surprise.

This, though—

“Hello.”

This might just reset that counter. How else is he supposed to react, seeing the kid turn up on his office doorstep all of a sudden? Especially with those bright green eyes genuinely conveying the message of _nice to see you_ … Sinclair becomes distinctly aware of the expression on his face.

_Dammit._

Sinclair clears his throat and regains some measure of control over his features. He ushers Johnny inside and makes space for him to pass in the same breath. There is something in the young man’s hands—a brown paper bag—and for some reason, it makes Sinclair think of that fruit from the night when they had dinner… What did Johnny call them? The word escapes his memory’s grasp. Its tart flavor does not.

“Now my damnable curiosity has me wondering just what you might have in that bag of yours.”

“Hm—oh. This?” Johnny turns, lifting the paper bag. “Actually, it’s— You wouldn’t happen to be the reading type, would you, Sinclair?”

“As it turns out, I do enjoy a bit of a good story now and then.” Sinclair smiles a little. “What brings this about?”

There is a book in the paper bag— _Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime and Other Stories_. It is a gift.

“For me?” Sinclair manages to keep the surprise off his face this time.

“Consider it a thank you for dinner,” Johnny answers, “or, if you like, an apology for just turning up out of nowhere. The look on your face says your secretary must’ve forgotten to leave a note.”

“Secretary—?” Augustus Sinclair is currently between secretaries. (No wonder Tenny seemed so pleased with herself during their visit, like a cat waiting for him to find the “gift” hidden in his shoes.). “I do have to admit that I am, uh, a touch shocked to see you.”

“Really? I mean, after three weeks, part of me was beginning to wonder—”

“Oh, it ain’t from not wanting to, if that’s what’s bothering you.” He gestures towards his desk. “It’s more a matter of respecting boundaries.”

Johnny glances over his shoulder. “Is that so?”

“I am, first and foremost, a gentleman. I respect when I am told not to call until a task is done. Unfortunately, filling out your request has been a harder venture than expected—and that’s _with_ all of the connections at my disposal.”

They settle into chairs across from each other at Sinclair’s desk, the gift set down nearly between them, and he swears he sees a strange look flash across the young man’s face. Confusion? Surprise? Something of the kind… It gives him pause. Did Johnny forget? Impossible! It’s only been three weeks! The circumstances under which they parted were what they were, true, and Sinclair knows (because of those wonderful connections at his disposal) that the kid’s been ever the social butterfly, but all the same! Three weeks! That’s nowhere near enough time to just _forget_ leaving someone a note, right?

“I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean,” Johnny answers. “When did I tell you not to call?”

_No, he can’t seriously have forgotten._

“Ah… Well, you didn’t—not verbally, exactly—where did I—?” Sinclair knows where he put it (the inside cover of his current datebook, currently sitting on his desk), but he digs through his drawers all the same. He sets his face to reflect determination. “I had it sitting here somewhere, just in case—”

Johnny leans forward. “What is it you’re looking for—?”

“Oh—wait, wait—” Finally, he lifts the datebook. He thumbs forward through the pages, flips back through them. “I was damn certain it was in here—”

The note slips from the pocket of the inside cover and lands on the desk with some measure of grace. Johnny picks it up and keeps his gaze respectfully off the text by angling it up towards Sinclair’s face. Something about it… Someone else, anyone else, they would look demure looking up at him like that. Soft. Submissive, even.

“Is this it?”

Sinclair flicks his gaze down to the note (as if he hasn’t already memorized the message). He nods and attempts to wave a dismissive hand. “No need for discretion, son. It’s your own handwriting on the page.”

“So it is…” Johnny’s brow furrows slightly. The corners of his lips tip down. He shakes his head as he returns the note to the table. “I’m sorry. I must’ve…” He laughs a little, shyly turns his gaze downward. “I guess I was running on fumes when I wrote that.”

“Fumes?”

“For want of a word. I can hold my liquor pretty well, even though it’s been quite a while since I’ve gone out drinking like that, but then you get hormones involved in the mix and things start getting clouded—”

The word catches Sinclair in the throat. He coughs it back out: _“Hormones?”_

“How else do you figure I’d put it?” asks Johnny.

Sinclair clears his throat. He eyes the decanter set underneath his window. A drink might not be such a bad idea right now, actually…

“No tienes que preocuparte,” Johnny tells him finally, after what feels like too long a silence.

Sinclair narrows his eyes. “Why’re you—?”

“Para que sepas que digo la verdad. No tienes que preocuparte.” And the kid gives him a knowing look. “I get it. We barely know each other. We were drunk. Maybe you’re worried you were taking advantage of me—”

“Hold on—”

“You weren’t, for the record.”

“Well, that’s—”

“But maybe you’ve just never been with another man before.”

“Now what—?”

“It’s fairly common,” Johnny tells him calmly. “It’s a really common thing. ‘Oh, I’ve never been with another man before, but I’ve always wanted to.’ Then it turns out they spent their finishing school days experimenting with half their classmates and pretending it didn’t count.”

Yes, it is definitely time for a drink.

“Look, what I’m trying to say,” Johnny adds, “is that I understand it if you’re uneasy. Maybe that’s also why I left you the note, Sinclair—so you could have time for…processing things, I guess. I don’t know. Give you time to decide if you wanted to continue doing business—”

The whiskey goes down hot, sharp. It pools, heat radiating, in the pit of his stomach. “That’s an awful lot to assume of someone you barely know.”

“It’s my experience that directs my observations.”

“And if I was to say your observation is mistaken?” Sinclair turns, hands coming to rest on his hips. A smile pulls at his lips. “I must say, you look mighty startled.”

“What—no—” Johnny shakes his head, but there is a touch of color in his face. He laughs a little. “Maybe we’ve both assumed too much.”

“Maybe.” There is a beat of silence. “Well, I suppose there’s only one way to correct this—”

“My thoughts exactly.” Johnny rises from the chair. “Pick you up at seven?”

Sinclair blinks. “Seven?”

“Actually, let’s say eight. Sometimes my six o’clock runs a bit long.” The kid almost looks a touch apologetic about it. “So. Eight? Or do I need to make another appointment through your secretary?”

The nerve! The confidence, really. It’s almost admirable. It almost reminds Sinclair of himself, actually.

“Eight is fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone curious, _Lord Savile's Crime and Other Stories_ [is a real book](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord_Arthur_Savile%27s_Crime_and_Other_Stories), written by Oscar Wilde. ;3
> 
> **Translations:**  
>  1\. “No tienes que preocuparte." = You don't have to worry.  
> 2\. “Para que sepas que digo la verdad. No tienes que preocuparte.” = So you know that I'm telling the truth. You don't have to worry.


End file.
